In the throes of fever and such and amid trying to get a #resist activity going, I lie in bed thinking about, of all things, death. Because my reaction to recent celebrity deaths have almost always included the thought of, "Well, at least they don't have to live under a Trump presidency." Being sick [and, hey, also losing more weight than I would want to so maybe foreshadowing, kids], my mind veers to my own death. What if this is the illness I've been expecting since I was, oh, 8 or 9, finally come home to roost?
My expectations of my own death [and, sorry, everyone else's deaths, too] are that there is nothing more after that. Rather, at least there is nothing for my conscious being. Parts of me will live on for however long the universe lives on, just as they lived on ever since the universe was formed. Sadly, none of those parts can unite to come haunt some people. And, yeah, I'm talking about VOTUS or SCROTUS, for sure. [I lost that battle, too, didn't I? VOTUS never took on. It's because SCROTUS is just too fucking perfect. I was so close to online fame. Hah!]
I acknowledge the impact the death will have on the people I love most fiercely in my life. I can say truly that no one knows how any of them feel going through my death. No one does. No one will. No one ever does. No one ever will.
[Shit, now Pete is going to be pissed off that I put that in there. But hear me out. One of the several overpowering emotions I can call up at a moment's notice regarding my father's death relates to people coming up to me in the early hours, days, weeks and months saying, "I know just how you feel," as they then launched into something about some death of a loved one they had experienced. Fuck that shit, folks. It angered me then and it angers me now. No one can know. No one ever can. Now, Pete, teach them to put that "Cheshire Smile" on their faces when they encounter people saying that to them. Practice doing it yourself. Thankfully, the lot of you are far more sympathetic to the needs of others than I am. Maybe it won't anger you all. Or maybe you'll just bury it deep inside you and rage at a TSA agent in your future. You decide.]
Man, I just completely derailed the post I had hoped would sail me into post-mortem fame and (heir's) fortune. Okay. Nothing to see here, folks. Just more ramblings of someone who admits, that, yes, my mother is correct and I should get a flu shot every year. Remember, if it's already happened, it's not advice you're giving, it's judgement.
Conclusion to be Read Upon My Death. You'll all come back to this post, after I'm dead if I'm dead sooner rather than later, and you'll read the words again. Of course, the viralability [hey, did that become a standard term used after I wrote this but before I died or did it become after I died] will depend on the winds of progress.
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